


Pressure

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Birth, Dystocia, M/M, Male Lactation, Mpreg, difficult birth, sort of erotic birth, this is a strange one as far as that goes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:03:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was standing in the kitchen when it happened, hand resting on the top of his belly as he watched John cook, and the doctor turned with a concerned look on his face when he heard Sherlock's noise of surprise. He turned to find the detective with both hands pressed against his stomach, a look of shock on his face. </p><p>"Christ, she's turned the wrong way."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pressure

**Author's Note:**

> Request for a breech presentation that was difficult to correct, resulting in a lot of pain and pressure and a difficult birth.  
> Yep, there are a lot of aspects of this story for which reality was temporarily put out of service. Terribly sorry for the inconvenience for those of you who expect realistic male pregnancies.  
> For the rest of you, enjoy.

For the last three appointments, Sherlock's baby had been facing the right direction, even after she dropped into position a week before Sherlock was due. Though this change was what John and Sherlock had been waiting for, it made life a little more difficult for Sherlock, whose belly was suddenly much lower and fuller-feeling, impeding his daily activities and making it a royal pain to waddle from place to place. 

 

The day before Sherlock was due, however, the baby performed one last trick, wherein she flipped heels over head in one grand, almost nauseating movement. Sherlock was standing in the kitchen when it happened, hand resting on the top of his belly as he watched John cook, and the doctor turned with a concerned look on his face when he heard Sherlock's noise of surprise. He turned to find the detective with both hands pressed against his stomach, a look of shock on his face. 

 

"Christ, she's turned the wrong way." 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock spent the whole of dinner pressing against the baby as he ate, trying to get her to turn back. Her head, he could feel, was at the very top of his belly, which put her bum just at the top of his birth canal, the precise wrong direction to make her eventual exit. 

 

Sherlock was frantic by the end of the evening, when his baby was still turned the wrong way. "She's backwards, I can't flip her," he muttered, pressing against both sides of his belly. This enticed a kick, low in his belly and directly against his bladder, and he groaned and rose to waddle to the toilet. 

 

"Turn around, you!" he muttered as he re-entered the sitting room, shirtless and pressing against his baby's head. 

 

"Don't…you're going to hurt her, Sherlock," John chided, rising to plant a kiss to Sherlock's low belly and reaching an arm around to rub at his back. 

 

"This isn't hurting her, she's a full-term foetus and is going to soon be making an exit as a melon-sized baby through an almond-sized hole. Me pushing on her isn't damaging anything," Sherlock protested, but allowed John to usher him to sit back on the couch. 

 

"Come on, love, turn around for daddy, won't you?" John crooned, rubbing his hands gently across the expanse of Sherlock's stretched skin. "You can't come out facing that way. Bum first doesn't work."

 

"Plus it's fucking uncomfortable," Sherlock added, wincing as an errant punch of defiance hit his spine and sent a shock of pain up his back. "Turn the other bloody way 'round."

 

John nuzzled his nose against Sherlock's protruding navel, making the detective squirm. "Ssh, it's fine. We'll get her turned before you go into labour, I promise." 

 

* * *

 

"You promised, John Watson, you promised she'd turn before I went into labour!" Sherlock whined, pressing a hand against his back. He'd been pacing in the living room for an hour, since he started feeling his muscles tightening rhythmically every twenty minutes or so. The baby was, of course, now choosing to release the hormones triggering labour, but she was still facing the wrong way. 

 

"I know I did. I'm sorry, I really thought it was temporary." John sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face. "And you're sure this is labour? Not just practise contractions?"

 

"I lost my mucous plug, and I'm due today; I'm fairly certain this is labour, yes," Sherlock said irritably, rubbing his hand roughly over his belly. 

 

"Alright, alright. I believe you, I just…" John sighed again. "I thought she'd turn, I really did. Show me again how she's settled in?" 

 

Sherlock waddled across the room and took John's hand, pressing it against the top of his belly. "Head here, right against my lungs. Spine going down," he ran John's hand down his bump, lightly over his navel and further, "And bum down here. She's got a knee just here," situating John's palm over a small protrusion on his left side, "And a foot right against my spine." He groaned and stiffened as another contraction tightened his belly. 

 

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John murmured, rubbing the tiny knee as his husband bounced on his heels, riding out the contraction. 

 

"I need her to move. I can't push her out breech, it's impossible and dangerous to try. But she won't fucking turn," he growled, fiercely digging three fingers into the tight skin of his stomach, next to where the baby's head was. 

 

"It's okay, calm down. We'll get her to turn." John slid his hands under Sherlock's shirt to rest on his mounded belly. "Here, go lay down in bed. I'll be in in a mo." He patted the belly and turned to look for some lotion to give Sherlock a belly rub. 

 

Sherlock was on his back when John entered the bedroom, shirt off and exposing his small breasts and much larger belly. "This hurts," he whimpered. He twitched and set his hand on the bottom of his stomach. "She's right on my spine, ow." The corner of John's mouth turned down and his brow furrowed as he clucked in sympathy. 

 

"Sorry. We'll see if I can't get her to turn with this." The doctor poured a dollop of lotion onto his palm and settled over Sherlock's thighs, spreading the liquid in wide swaths and then beginning smaller circles to work it in. "Come on, sweetheart, daddy's in pain and you're not helping." 

 

"You're exacerbating the problem, really. This is all your fault." John chuckled and worked his fingers in quick, rough rhythm, indexmiddleringpinky in fast succession, all over Sherlock's swollen middle. He prodded deep as he could without increasing Sherlock's discomfort, trying to encourage their baby to turn back into the correct position. 

 

Sherlock grunted and grabbed John's wrist as another contraction came in ripples over his belly. His fingers were an iron grip around John's arm, conveying his pain and stress as his body worked to force a baby into position when she was staunchly turned the wrong way round. John could only wait for Sherlock's grip to slacken before he redoubled his efforts, focussing on the baby's spine and sides, clearly felt as his fingers dug in. "Go on, turn back over," he muttered. 

 

"God, John, stop, I can't do this," Sherlock blurted, rolling to the left and sitting as swiftly as possible on the edge of the mattress. Tears clung to the corners of his eyelashes and he was sitting cramped up, arms bent to avoid touching his middle. It was a stark contrast to his usual position, cradling his belly lovingly, and John ached to see the change. 

 

"What can I do, love?" he asked gently, kneading his fingers into Sherlock's back. 

 

"I don't know," Sherlock replied, defeated. His posture read pain and worry in all his angles. "I just don't know." 

 

* * *

 

"Fuck! Fuck, I can't do it. She's not turned right, I can't push her out, not like this." Sherlock writhed on the bed, suffering through another contraction as his body tried to force his baby into the birth canal. 

 

"No, you're right, it's impossible to do," John agreed, pushing Sherlock's bangs out of his eyes as his mind raced. "Your muscles are getting too tight, it's not just the contractions but stress, too. If you were more relaxed, it might make it easier for her to turn."

 

Sherlock groaned in exasperation. "There's not many ways for me to relax at the moment, John, being in labour and all, though trust me when I say that if there was a way, I would be the first in line." 

 

John cracked a smile. "I know, love. She still on your spine?" 

 

"Yes," Sherlock hissed. "Right bloody on top of it." 

 

"Okay, I want to try a massage, see if I can loosen your back up a little. Can you do hands and knees?" Sherlock nodded, looking wary. "Right then. Up you come," and John placed his hands on Sherlock's wide hips and pulled him upright. He immediately set to work rubbing Sherlock's back, wincing each time the detective jerked or keened. 

 

"No! Fuck, stop, I can't," Sherlock bit back a sob and pulled away from John after just a few minutes, lying gingerly back down on the mattress. Storms rumbled behind his eyes, and for a moment John wondered if he wasn't going to take out his frustration on his own body, their baby but thankfully the man drove his fist into the pile of pillows instead. "I can't do it, John, it hurts too much, we have to try something else." 

 

"It's okay, I understand, we'll do something different." John settled his hand on Sherlock's hip, running his thumb lightly over the curve of Sherlock's belly for a few moments as he thought. "If I fingered you, would that help? Maybe reduce the pain, override it a bit?" 

 

Pressure built up again in Sherlock's belly and he moaned, body going stiff. His hands flew to press against the bottom of his belly, where his baby's rear was trying to enter the birth canal, too wide to fit but trying nonetheless. It felt like she was splitting him, like his pelvis was shattering because of the pressure. Tears leaked from his eyes and he finally nodded to John, agreeing to try something else, something new. He needed relief, he needed to relax his muscles, he needed his baby to turn and she wouldn't do it on her own, he needed John's help to get her to move. 

 

John's slick, wet finger pressed against Sherlock's entrance and breached the ring of muscle, brushing against Sherlock's prostate as soon as he could crook his finger to reach. It was a testament to the amount of pain the man was in that he didn't react to the stimulation, and John grew increasingly more concerned as Sherlock failed to respond. 

 

"Do you even feel anything?" John asked, the pad of his finger over Sherlock's prostate, but the man shook his head. "Fuck." 

 

"Take me to hospital, John," Sherlock murmured, collapsing weakly on the pillows as the contraction released. 

 

"No, I - you hate hospitals, it's not in your birth plan, it won't be good if you have to go," John protested, panicking now that he was running out of options. 

 

"We are out of options. I will die if I can't deliver her, John, and I can't do it on my own." Sherlock opened his eyes, clear even through the pain. 

 

John stopped his stammering and his face fell. "I…I know you're right. But." He swallowed. "Do you think, if you orgasmed, your muscles would relax enough that I could manually flip her?"

 

"In theory, yes, but I don't know that I can physically orgasm at present." Sherlock's voice caught on the last word and he blew out the remaining breath in his lungs, a strong contraction gripping his muscles. He ended the spasm with a high whine, and John leaned down to kiss the detective's cheek and grab his hand. 

 

"Can we try it? And then call an ambulance if it doesn't help?" John asked quietly. 

 

"I don't…yes, do it. I hate hospitals." Sherlock shuffled until he was lying on his side, and let John push his upper leg high as it would go to expose his entrance. He was already loose from John's fingering, so it took just a few more minutes of preparation before Sherlock was ready. 

 

John laid on his side behind Sherlock, and slid inside with one slow push. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock's stomach, holding it as he seated himself, and Sherlock's hand joined John's and squeezed lightly. John pressed kisses to Sherlock's shoulders for a few moments as he gave his mate time to adjust, and Sherlock laced his fingers with John's and squeezed again as a signal that he could start to move. 

 

John took it slow, each push long but gentle to avoid jostling Sherlock and putting him in even greater pain. A contraction shook Sherlock's body and he trembled beneath John's hands, fighting against his body's desire to push. Sherlock's breath left his body in short bursts, near sobs, as his belly tightened, and John slowed to a stop until the spasm passed. 

 

"Move," Sherlock rasped as his muscles released, and John conceded, changing the angle of his hips to try and stroke Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock started to respond to the stimulation now, his breath hitching each time John's cock slid in and out. 

 

"Okay?" John asked, and Sherlock nodded fervently, eyes squeezed shut as John thrust in. John moved his hand from Sherlock's belly down to stroke his cock, which was half-erect. He felt the organ pulse as he ran his hand along its length, and Sherlock groaned when John squeezed lightly, encouraging his mate's cock to stiffen. 

 

"Don't worry about hurting me, just help me come off," Sherlock gritted out, and John nodded grimly and started to thrust harder. Sherlock's body shook with another contraction, but John pumped him through it, doing everything he could to work Sherlock to orgasm. 

 

Almost out of nowhere, the Omega shouted and panted and his cock spilled all over John's hand, the man nearly crying with relief as oxytocin flooded his system. The hormone did its quick work in loosening Sherlock's muscles, and suddenly in one nauseating, heart-stopping movement their baby righted herself. Sherlock cried out in near agony as he felt her head pressing on his birth canal, eager to exit now she'd turned the right way. 

 

"Yes! Oh god, wonderful, that's brilliant," John murmured, pulling out of Sherlock without coming so he could assist the man. His erection was already flagging as his doctoral nature took over, and John slid into pyjama pants to resume his duties. 

 

"Fuck," Sherlock panted, turning to lie on his back. His hands were both on his belly, muscles tight with a contraction and he squeezed his eyes shut to fight against pushing until John cleared him to do so. Oh god, but it was a relief to have her righted, to know she was finally positioned correctly and that labour could progress. Hours spent writhing, holding back against his body's need to expel had left him with waning energy, but a second wind came with their baby's turn. 

 

John wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow and let his eyes drift half-shut as he slipped his hand between Sherlock's legs. A quick check of distance between his fingers assured him that Sherlock was fully dilated, and the doctor wiped his hands efficiently and rested one palm on Sherlock's knee. "Okay, love. It's time to push. Are you ready?" 

 

Sherlock opened his eyes to meet John's, and nodded solemnly. "We're going to have a baby, John." 

 

John smiled. "Soon. Now, with the next contraction, push as hard as you can. I'll be right here." 

 

Sherlock had only a few moments to wait before his muscles tensed, and he closed his eyes tightly as he tucked his chin to his chest and pushed. Bearing down, he felt his baby's head slowly entering the birth canal, could feel the slow widening to accommodate her passage. He let out a low, long grunt as he pushed, and let up when John murmured for him to take a break. 

 

In a sudden rush, fluids tinged yellow poured from Sherlock's birth canal, and both men gasped - one in pain, one in thankful relief - as his waters soaked the mattress. Now there was no buffer, nothing to obstruct their baby's exit, and Sherlock felt a new, stronger contraction grip his uterus. 

 

"That's it, Sherlock, that's good. We need to get her out in the next three pushes, okay? Push. Push hard, yes! Good, very good," John encouraged, kneading Sherlock's thigh as the detective bore down. Sherlock yelled, throat hoarse, as he pushed, and panted shallowly when the contraction released. 

 

"God, it burns," Sherlock hissed, fisting his hands in the sheets and looking pleadingly up at John. "Why does it burn?" 

 

John looked down with a weak smile. "She's crowning. Her head's crowning, you're doing so well." 

 

"Oh." Sherlock looked incredulous. "I need…to feel," he finished, and John grasped his hand and pulled it down to touch the top of their baby's head, wet and bloody. "Good god," he breathed, and closed his eyes for a brief moment. 

 

"You're going to be a dad in just a few minutes, Sherlock," John said, letting his fingers brush their child's hair beside Sherlock's own. 

 

Sherlock nodded, head back against the pillow, and breathed a little deeper as he waited for the next contraction to come. When it did, he gave an almighty roar, pushing hard to try and get the head out in the next push. John slid his fingers down alongside the baby's head, in the small gap between her skull and Sherlock's skin, to help stretch as Sherlock pushed. Millimeter by millimeter, her head emerged, little eyes and chubby cheeks and tiny ears and scrunched nose and pouty lips and as her chin passed, Sherlock stopped straining and heaved several breaths, looking at John through sweat-beaded eyelashes. 

 

John cleared his throat, tearing up slightly as he gave Sherlock a brief report. "Beautiful. Dark hair, just like you, oh my god. She's beautiful." He cupped her head in the palm of one hand and grasped Sherlock's hand with the other. 

 

Sherlock just nodded and started again almost immediately to push, grunting that turned to keening as her shoulders started to emerge. "That's it, that's it, keep going, good, yes, Sherlock, good man," John murmured, a chant, a mantra as his mate laboured. The words faded to noise as Sherlock pushed, and then all at once everything came to a stop and he felt emptiness, utter relief. 

 

And then their baby cried. 

 

"Give her to me," Sherlock rasped, reaching out for their squalling child as she wailed indignantly in John's hands. John nodded and handed the infant to the exhausted detective, who took her with shaking arms and an awed smile on his face. 

 

"You did so well, Sherlock, so well." John kissed the inside of Sherlock's knee tenderly, looking up at his mate and their newborn baby girl, whimpering on Sherlock's chest. 

 

"Couldn't have done it without you," Sherlock murmured in reply, absently stroking the infant's cheek. Casting a glance down at John, he turned his attention to the baby, crooning softly. "Hello, little one. Little Charlotte. I've been waiting to meet you for hours," he said softly, liquid eyes drinking in the sight of her tiny, scrunched face. "You're lovely." 

 

John crawled up the bed to lie beside Sherlock, his hand cradling little Charlotte's elbow and running his thumb over the chubby skin lightly. "Papa worked very, very hard to meet you, little one," he whispered, softly kissing every inch of Sherlock's skin he could fathomably reach. Sherlock squirmed and chuckled as John's lips brushed the tender skin of his now significantly-deflated belly and that of his puffy breasts, and hummed quietly when John's mouth finally reached his own. "I love you," John murmured, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. He smiled when Sherlock's fingers cradled his head, running through his short blond hair. 

 

"I love you too." 

 

* * *

 

Little Charlotte was in her romper and suckling happily from Sherlock's breast when John re-entered the room, carrying a tray of soup and a cup of tea. After they'd delivered the placenta, Sherlock had hastily showered and re-dressed into soft pyjamas and a t-shirt. His hair now lay in drying curls on his forehead, but he looked positively drained. 

 

"A little bit of dinner, yeah, before you fall asleep?" Sherlock looked up and smiled wanly at John, nodding before turning his attention back to Charlotte. "She really is beautiful," John added, setting the tray down and settling onto the mattress beside Sherlock. 

 

"She is indeed. I have seen ugly babies, and I can say our child is not in that category at all. I think she may be the prettiest baby I've ever seen." 

 

"You're a bit biased, though," John laughed, brushing the baby's fine black hair off her forehead. "But I must say I agree." 

 

"She's a very good eater," Sherlock murmured, shifting the infant slightly in his arms as she nursed enthusiastically. 

 

"Smart, then. Like her papa." 

 

"Handsome, like her daddy." 

 

"She gets that from you, too. I hope she has your…your eyes," John inhaled sharply when Charlotte's eyes opened, revealing grey-blue eyes, a carbon copy of Sherlock's. 

 

"There's a good chance those will change, John," Sherlock replied, but his mouth spread into a wide smile as he looked at their baby. 

 

"They won't change. Not if I have to fight with nature herself, they'll stay just like that. God, I can only imagine what you must have looked like as a baby. She looks just like you, Sherlock." 

 

"Dominant traits," Sherlock said, nodding. "She'll benefit from softening some of those angles with your features, though, and she'll have much better parents than either you or I. We'll raise her well, that I promise." Sherlock looked up at John, eyes bright but serious. 

 

"Of course. You're going to be a great dad, Sherlock. I know you will be." 

 

"No pressure," Sherlock chuckled, and John bent over to kiss him. 

 

"No, none at all." 


End file.
